


The Healing Process

by herbailiwick



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coping, Drunkenness, Fights, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Laundry, M/M, Rain, Red Pants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 07:24:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/pseuds/herbailiwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft walks alongside John in the healing process.</p><p>A focus on healing and on friendship with a bit of romance too. <span>Includes drunk and disorderly John, long-suffering Mycroft, and, here and there, a few pairs of colored pants.</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Healing Process

The first time, John is absolutely soaking wet with rain on the outside and with God knows what sort of alcohol on the inside. He's completely done for, and he looks almost as confused to see Mycroft as Mycroft is to see him.

"Yes, John?" Mycroft says, and isn't that a bit strange, just addressing him like it's normal. But, what else is he supposed to say? He holds open the door. John stares at him some more.

"Come in," Mycroft points out, holding the door open just a bit wider. "The rain's not going to let up just because you wish it to." This too is followed by a long and awkward pause.

"Cab fare," John finally says, and enters the house, and Mycroft blinks, staring at the cab. 

"Don't sit down!" he calls after John's wobbly figure. Door still wide open, Mycroft reaches into his pocket for his wallet, grabbing his umbrella from the stand and braving the rain with an expression of distaste. It's rather cold out, actually. He wonders how long John was walking around before the cab driver took pity. 

Mycroft thanks the driver and pays him extra for the trouble.

"I _said_ don't sit!" he yells at John, who's sat down and closed his eyes. John jumps at the sound, blinking his eyes open.

Mycroft kneels down with a sigh, shaking his head as he unties John's shoes with irritated precision and removes them, as well as his sodden socks. He places the socks in the shoes, holds them both in one hand, and hefts the drunken man up.

"God, I hate you so much," John complains as they make their awkward way up the stairs. 

It really shouldn't bother Mycroft, but it rather does. He swallows against the sudden chill that comes over him. Because it had been nice to see John come to see him when he's clearly not been handling things since Sherlock's death well. Seeing him on the porch...had been like a gift.

But, it's not a gift. It's some sort of horrible curse. Mycroft's not actually allowed to dream, not allowed to have anything but his job and his house and Sherlock, which is all well and good, but he'd really like a friend like John, or maybe more, like John could be, but no amount of drunken mistakes is going to create a friendship. John's not even going to remember the way Mycroft's helping him up the stairs. He'll just move on with his life and expect Mycroft to. Pausing in front of the door to the large bathroom, Mycroft briefly closes his eyes. 

"Did you hear me?" John says a bit loudly.

"I heard you perfectly," Mycroft replies coolly, pushing the door open and leading John inside. "I have my doubts that you can manage the shower in this state," he says with disapproval, "so the tub is at your disposal. I'll launder your clothes, and you can change into some pyjamas. Wait here."

John sort of takes that as his cue to lean against the wall and slump down until he's on the floor. Mycroft opens his mouth to comment, shakes his head, and heads into the bedroom to find John some pyjamas. 

Accepting the clothes, John says, "Ta, you piece of filth," in a tone that implies he thinks he's hilarious. He grins at Mycroft with crinkling eyes, somehow apparently trying to impress Mycroft, who could probably be less impressed but can't imagine just how at the moment.

"Right," Mycroft says, raising his voice slightly. "Well, I'll show you how the tap works, then. You can manage that, right? Don't overfill the tub."

"If you're so fussy, come check on me, then," challenges the slurring man.

"There's nothing I'd _less_ like to do," Mycroft lies ferociously, causing John to blink in surprise.

"...Go away," John says.

Mycroft starts the tap going, adjusting the temperature, plugging up the tub. "Trust me, I will, once I'm satisfied you're not going to kill yourself or overflow the tub. I think it's fairly self-explanatory, but, then, you _are_ drunk, and more than a bit _stupid_ ," he bites out, which is really the biggest lie of all.

John hates the word stupid, as Mycroft knows. "Just go away already!" John says. "I _have_ got this."

Mycroft really hopes he has.

***

Mycroft waits in his bedroom while John bathes just past the door joining the rooms. He tries to focus on a novel he's reading in order to build rapport with someone more than a bit boring as far as tastes go, so he's still got plenty of time to worry about how John's getting on. Because, honestly, accusations of stupidity can come and go, _will_ come and go, it seems, but he's still going to like John Watson. It's bad. It's one of those Serious Crushes that one never really finds themselves fully rid of.

Mycroft hates John for that, a bit, since he's apparently not very nice when he's drunk, or at least not nice to Mycroft. They haven't seen each other since John showed up at his office, and now here he is again, invading Mycroft's space, making a prat of himself. Really, this is the first unexpected visit Mycroft has had in years, and it's not all that nice of a surprise.

"How do I turn it off, you _prick_?" John yells above the sound of the water, and Mycroft turns the book over and stands up in the same motion, pushing the door open. He leans over the tub slightly to stop the water. Ignoring John, who should be thanking him but isn't, he scoops up John's clothing, bundling it in his arms, swallowing at the cold, wet, dripping collection of fabric, at the unpleasant, cool stickiness of it that reminds him of the way his throat and chest have felt cold and bundled and sticky since John has shown his true colors.

He closes the door behind him and heads for the washing machine. 

***

He makes sure he's got both socks, makes sure the mud stains at the bottoms of the trouser legs are gone, then he hangs the lot up, briefly swallowing at guilt as he hangs up a pair of pants that are...patterned. 

No, seriously. What? What is John Watson doing with patterned pants?

Alright, they look inexpensive, and the pattern is a subtle sort of blue and white tartan, but there's clearly no way it's a fluke or the result of some bet because the elastic band is wearing and there's a bit of a blue thread hanging off, and they're really not awful, they're just...well, patterned, and, the thing is, Mycroft had always pictured John in plain white briefs.

Oh hell. Even admitting to _himself_ that he's actually pictured the most likely style of briefs for John to be wearing is truly embarrassing. He spends as little time hanging them up as possible, more than a bit disgusted with himself, and tries not to think about the fact he's now officially touched John Watson's tartan pants as he goes back to his suddenly-less-interesting book. 

Finally, John emerges, warm and pink looking, still fairly wobbly and queasy, and Mycroft's going to need to try and convince him to drink a little water. Actually, he'll probably be up all night making sure John is okay, helping him vomit, all of that good stuff.

He'd like to say it won't be worth it, but he can't say that in honesty.

***

The night is a blur of vomit and dimmed lights and a blubbering John Watson. John starts to cry, and he blames Mycroft for mumbled things that seem to all have to do with Sherlock, and Mycroft hates Sherlock just a little for creating one more mess for Mycroft to clean up, and he gets John to take in a little water, and really it doesn't go too poorly, though not all of the vomit makes it into the toilet, so that's rather unpleasant, but Mycroft deals with it.

It is not, by any means, an easy way to spend the night, and it leaves Mycroft tired and a little anxious because he gets the distinct feeling that John's tenuous grip on the concept of self-preservation has been severely crumbling, and Mycroft's not even sure what to do about that except to pat his back and clean up his vomit.

***

"I'm not doing that again," John says, burying his face in his arms at the table, the curtains all closed, the lights dimmed.

"I'm glad to hear it," Mycroft says, starting up the kettle.

John just sort of groans.

After some tea, Mycroft sends John on his way. He doesn't receive a thank you, which bothers him a little, which sits a little wrong with him, but he decides it's likely John's head is just bothering him too much for him to remember his manners. He hopes that's all it is.

***

"Cab fare."

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. He decides to be accommodating again; perhaps he'll win John over if he is. 

"This is becoming a habit," Mycroft jokes as he comes back in and shuts the door. He's pleased to see John just standing there in the entryway. 

John makes a noncommittal noise and shrugs. 

"Right. Well, let me just get your shoes," says Mycroft. He has hope things will go much more smoothly, now that John already knows he's someone who will spend a whole night looking after him if it's what's required. He slowly leads John to the sofa to remove his shoes. John, being entirely dry, if a bit sweaty, is fully allowed to sit now, and Mycroft unties the shoes as he had before. "Much better," Mycroft says brightly. "The tub again, or can you handle the shower?"

John tilts his head curiously at the question, finally saying, "The shower. I think."

It's good enough for Mycroft, who leads him back up to the shower, socks and shoes in hand. He places the shoes, socks inside, in the hallway, and tells John, "I'll show you how to work the tap. It's slightly different."

John watches him explain the working of the shower tap with a pleasing amount of focus. 

Mycroft gets John another pair of his pyjamas. It had been a bit amusing to see how big they'd looked on John the last time, but he'd had been worried about other things. This time, he's going to have time to appreciate the sight.

***

The pants are white. A bit disappointing almost, though he's glad to know John does indeed own white briefs. 

It's really quite horrible that he's pictured that before, but, who knows, maybe in time John will return his affections and that will be perfectly acceptable.

No. No, that's not a good line of thinking at all. No amount of nights spent seeing after John could lead to that outlandish conclusion.

***

John looks sweet and silly in the long pyjamas. John has imbibed less alcohol than the time before, and it shows. They actually get a bit of rest, too. Mycroft pulls out the cot and sets it up for John, who actually thanks him.

***

"Why here?" Mycroft asks John in the morning, handing him the tea.

"Hm?"

"Twice now you've showed up. Why?"

"Well, I knew you'd take me in," John points out. "God, my head."

"Yes, well, that  _will_  happen." Mycroft watches John thoughtfully, pleased to hear he's apparently earned John's trust. 

"I miss Sherlock," John grumbles.

Clearly. "I know you do," Mycroft says softly in sympathy. 

John shrugs his shoulders. "I just don't have many friends, you know?"

Does that mean John considers him a friend? A bit touched, Mycroft wonders whether or not to explain that he hasn't many friends either. 

Thoughts of John Watson actually being civil, actually possibly _forgiving_ Mycroft for what he didn't actually do, interrupt Mycroft occasionally while he works. Sometimes, perhaps a little kindness really does go a long way.

***

John pays his own cab fare the next time. John is wearing white briefs with a hole in them.

John isn't very drunk. John tells Mycroft it's a bit weird to keep coming over and wearing his pyjamas, and Mycroft agrees, but, in a moment of the honesty that comes so easily around John, he says he doesn't necessarily mind.

John says, "Seems like you're lonely."

Mycroft says, "I am." And in a moment of boldness, he adds, "I think you are too."

John scoffs. "I'm lonely out of choice," he says defiantly, an odd sort of pride in his gaze as he stares at Mycroft, and Mycroft suddenly feels distinctly uncomfortable.

***

The next time, Mycroft gets a phone call from Lestrade.

"Yes?"

"Er...I don't know what to do."

"Do about what?" asks Mycroft with a frown. Lestrade sounds frazzled, Sherlock frazzled, but surely Sherlock hasn't popped by, not while so much is at stake? 

"John Watson is here." Mycroft holds his breath, surprised and wary. Perhaps Mycroft had gotten too close for John's tastes. Understandable. Poor Lestrade. "And, um...he's...he's drinking, and he's _been_  drinking, and...John, no!"

"What's he doing?" Mycroft asks, hoping he's hidden his amusement.

"...Never mind that, can you just come get him?"

Mycroft raises an eyebrow, not that Lestrade is going to get the effect of the expression from over the phone. "Why should I?"

Lestrade takes pause at that. "See, he said you wouldn't want to come. I didn't think that was true, though. I'll...take care of this myself. Didn't mean to bother you for nothing." He sounds slightly accusatory, slightly...defensive.

Mycroft sighs. "I'll take him," he says, "if he'll come."

***

"Why did you call him?" John complains to Lestrade, getting up unsteadily with the help of the chair. 

"You two should sort this out together," Lestrade says, nodding at them. "That's what I think, anyway."

Mycroft frowns slightly, looking at Lestrade, noting something in Lestrade's tone that indicates he's trying to impart personal wisdom. "Together?" he says quietly, pointedly. "Why?"

Lestrade frowned, looking between them. "Er. Because...you of all people should know how to work things out?"

Mycroft's lip quirks in amusement. "Do you think...? Oh, Greg."

"Er...yeah," he says with a nod. "Suspected for a while."

"We're...not," Mycroft says, shaking his head. "It's not what you think." The words actually hurt a bit as they come out.

But, then again, John makes his way to Mycroft, flinging his arm across Mycroft's upper back, leaning into him, and the words somehow feel imbued with a sort of "not yet" power. 

"Mycroft, I'm so sorry," Lestrade says with concern. "Thought he was fighting with you or something. Just...when he mentioned you, I got the feeling...oh, I'm so sorry. This is so...."

"It's not, actually," Mycroft says quickly because, well, actually it is. "Quite alright! We're creating something of a tradition now, I'm afraid, but at least I brought the car. No cab fare tonight." Mycroft offers his hand to faithful Lestrade with a faint smile. "Thank you very much. You've been more than good to John."

Lestrade shakes the hand. "Take care of yourself. Yourself, mind, and not just John. Um. Good luck," he says a bit uneasily.

Mycroft is incredibly touched by Lestrade's perceptive concern. He offers a bit of a bow as he leads John out, swallowing at the rising feeling that John might somehow sober up and perceive the same.

***

"I think he likes you," John says on the way to the car.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "How unfortunate for him." He thinks of John's spreading warmth, the way he stinks of alcohol and anchorlessness, the amusement in his inebriated smile. 

"Hm. The Iceman strikes again," John teases before practically tripping over his own feet. He lets Mycroft help him into the car, still looking pleased with himself for the observation that Mycroft can't quite place.

"What's that?" Mycroft asks, though he really shouldn't.

"You. You're a real frigid bitch," John says with a sage nod. "But, you know that."

A heavy weight blooms in Mycroft's chest, so heavy he turns around, leaning against the side of the car and staring at the soft glow of Lestrade's front window like it might hold some answers. "Forgive me if I happen to believe your judgment is impaired right now, Doctor Watson," he finally expresses, and it feels like too little too late.

John gives a sort of laugh, but it lacks confidence. As Mycroft slinks around the front of the car and eventually into the seat, he runs the term "frigid bitch" over in his mind. Is he? He winces. The only one whose opinion he cares about on the matter has just told him so.

During the entire drive to his house, he pointedly does not look at John, not even a stolen glance. He feels pathetic and diminished and, frankly, a little abused. A sort of clenching feeling rises in his gut at how very...Mycroftian it is to pick up one's enemy in one's car and take them home to wipe up their vomit all while being called a frigid bitch. Story of his life, somehow.

Mycroft hesitates for a moment when he turns off the car. "You're a very hurtful drunk," he says as he unfastens his belt and stares at the rim of the motionless steering wheel. "You'll want to try and mind your tongue, or else it'll get you into trouble."

"Why?" John says with a self-satisfied smirk Mycroft catches when he looks over. "You've already done your worst, haven't you? What else can you really take away from me?"

Mycroft pales in the low light, avoiding John's slightly unfocused gaze, but not his horrible smirk. With a curled lip and all his deliberation, Mycroft punches the horn button, causing John to jump. Then, he slinks away, heading out into the more concealing night so he can focus on bringing John inside. Honestly, sometimes he'd give _anything_ to be a frigid bitch.

***

John wets his trousers.

"Serves you right. You invited me here," John groans, the displeasure with Mycroft forming the candy coating around his own embarrassment and disgust with himself. Mycroft sees beneath the shell so distinctly that he actually has to fight off the fond smile that keeps threatening to crop up.

"I suppose you'll have to go without pants until I put yours through the wash." Mycroft shakes his head, looking at John. "Let me get you some pyjamas, and I'll get right on that."

John frowns at Mycroft in utter distrust, even through Mycroft handing him the pyjamas and starting the tub.

Mycroft looks at John and swallows. John's continued frown makes him feel oddly assumptive. "You'll want to clean up?"

John blinks, the frown slowly disappearing. He doesn't answer with words, but that's good enough for Mycroft. 

"I'll leave open the door, and in a few minutes, I'll come collect your trousers."

John stares at him with as much focus and resolve as he can muster. Mycroft is touched by the embarrassment he must be hiding again.

"I'll be by in a few minutes," Mycroft says again.

He leaves as John starts to test the temperature of the water.

***

These pants are a striped with tiny horizontal lines in two distinct shades of green. Mycroft tends to them with professionalism, amusement, and a hint of reverence because they probably look nice on John.

Oh, he's disgusting, but not quite as disgusting as the act of pissing oneself.

***

John looks slightly haunted. "I'm sorry about last night. Especially for...," he hangs his head. "Thanks," he says, looking up again. "Thank you. I really meant to stay at Lestrade's," he says with a wince. Mycroft realizes John is admitting he would have been less embarrassed to piss himself at Lestrade's. Mycroft isn't an advocate of pissing oneself at his house by any means, but he would hope John would understand by now that Mycroft knows uncomfortable things happen when people are drunk.

"You held to that, actually," he tells John, remembering John's reluctance to join him. "It's Lestrade who was concerned." Mycroft pauses, wondering whether or not to mention why Lestrade had called him in the first place. "He thought you and I were in a fight." He gauges John's reaction.

"We are," John points out. "More of a...war, really."

Mycroft tilts his head forward in agreement. The fact that he's really only gotten a few jabs in doesn't make it any less of one. "He thought we were having a lover's tiff," Mycroft says with a raised eyebrow. 

"Ah. Ha! No. Ah, dear Inspector Greg," John says with curiosity and a hint of healthy disbelief, shaking his head. "I wonder why he thought that."

"It's a mystery, I'm afraid," Mycroft says, careful not to look fond. "Misguided assumption aside, Greg might be able to assist you, hold you accountable." 

John considers this, nodding. Greg and John get on alright.

"You should really be putting your life back on track," Mycroft says. It _has_ to be said. "I think it's...unwise for you to keep popping in and out like this." His voice is soft, but it doesn't shake in the slightest. He can't keep cleaning up John's messes for John to just come and use him again. He understands how easily such a thing can happen. 

"I could just stay here forever," John says with a laugh. He sort of bats his lashes, and Mycroft recoils at the mockery; it's too close, too exposing. He stands, turning away.

"Mycroft?" John says hesitantly.

"Why did you come here?" Mycroft bites out. Then, he pauses, swallowing. "I don't mean last night," he amends.

John goes very quiet. "Well," he says slowly, "I guess I figured I'd come play on your guilt. I'm awful, I know."

It's too much for the moment. There are things Mycroft wants to say now. It's time to center himself, to think, to not have to see John mocking him at every turn.

"If you really want me gone, just say it," John says, teasing mixed with sorrow in his voice.

"Pardon me," is all Mycroft can manage. He doesn't say goodbye to John, but John ends up getting the message.

***

"Cab fare," John bites out.

Mycroft glares at John as he walks up to the porch, as he walks past Mycroft, as he goes to stand in the entryway and see whether or not Mycroft will pay the fare again. It's the same driver as before, one who apparently trusts Mycroft more than John does. 

"You shouldn't be here," Mycroft tells John shortly, feeling out of place on his own porch.

"Fuck you," John says in challenge.

Mycroft tilts his head back a little, eyeing John with a hint of real distaste.

"You know who should be here?" John says. "Sherlock. So, let's just not do this, alright?"

Mycroft pauses, turning around and looking at the spot where the cab driver has just left from. He swallows.

"Good big brother, aren't you?" John says mockingly, and Mycroft's whole body tenses at the words coming from behind him because he is a _very_ good big brother, thank you.

"About as good of a friend you turned out to be, not saving him." Mycroft pauses. "Let's face it: He got what was coming to him," he says coolly, knowing the indifference will just set John off more. He carefully turns to see what effect his words have had.

Oh, John. John looks like a slapped child, his eyes actually full of tears. Blindly, he reaches out and tugs Mycroft into the house, gripping him and scowling. He shoves Mycroft against the wall fully with surprising practice-borne precision. He smiles at Mycroft with slow, dangerous ease, like the hurt inside of him is finally getting a chance to come out and play, and Mycroft returns the expression all too easily.

John's warm, and close, and losing his cool. Turning the tables would be arrangeable, but Mycroft would rather see what John does now. 

"You're the most disgusting person," John says in a hiss. "I swear." He gets a little closer, his breath nearly hitting Mycroft's neck, staring at the neck, pinning Mycroft there and getting lost in slow-running thoughts. 

"How romantic, John," Mycroft quips, tired of waiting for John to move. 

"You," John says, glancing up again, "are a frigid, _frigid_ son of a bitch," and Mycroft certainly couldn't have predicted the lost and twisted grin. "I don't know if I hate that or admire it."  Mycroft is lost in the enigmatic disaster that is post-fall John once more.

"I think you trust me despite it," Mycroft blurts out, tries to pass it off as a challenge with his expression just after, but really it's him hoping against hope.

John laughs then, really laughs, and he can't stop. He leans into Mycroft and laughs into his shoulder. He's warm and close.  The tension in Mycroft starts to ease because, well, perhaps they'll be alright, if John genuinely finds the situation amusing, if John shares Mycroft's amusement about their dynamic.

"There's _literally_ no one else for me to trust, is there?" John says, his breath warm. "I don't even know if I should have trusted _Sherlock_ , but I did." He grins, looking pained as he glances up. "Are you a fraud too, then, Mr British Government?"

"In light of things, it's a distinct possibility, I suppose," rumbles Mycroft. He feels a little uneasy, not liking being laughed at, especially when the laughing party has had more than a few drinks.

John rests a hand on the wall near Mycroft, using it to support himself. "Good," he says absently, "that's very good." He pats Mycroft's cheek with his free hand before peeling himself away. "God, do you have something to drink?"

Mycroft straightens up against the wall, brushing himself off. "You're not drinking in this house," he informs John plainly.

"That's okay; I'll take it on the porch," John jokes, and Mycroft swallows because he doesn't think it's funny.

***

"You really are an utter bastard," John declares as he sips at the drink Mycroft finally gave into providing him with.

And that's the final straw. "Oh, am I, John?" Mycroft snaps, yanking the fresh drink out of the hand of a surprised and drinks-slowed John. "I seem to recall _not_ being the one out of the two of us who's been sponging care and cab fare and _laundering_ out of the other."

John slinks a little in the chair, hands sort of finding each other awkwardly in the absence of something to hold. Mycroft sets the drink down out of John's reach and uses his gaze to demand a response.

"You did this to me, you know," John says bitterly, pulling at the sleeve of his jumper. "You took Sherlock from me, and now...I don't know what to do." John looks at Mycroft sadly. "I think I loved him."

And the wind sort of gets pulled out of Mycroft in one long exhale he feels he isn't controlling, and he hands John the drink again and takes a seat of his own. "You...did?" he says, hoping his voice isn't cracking as much as he's sure it is.

"Yeah. Even _you_ used to poke fun, and you know everything, right? So maybe I loved him."

Mycroft goes to bed and leaves John there. He's not sure whether or not it's the most hurtful thing John's said since he showed up demanding cab fare, which is pathetic because John probably didn't even mean to hurt him.

***

"God dammit, Mycroft."

"That's called the sun, John," Mycroft says with little pity.

John crosses the room, covering his eyes and shutting the curtains. 

"There's little point in the way you've been drinking."

"You don't know how I'm feeling, Mycroft. So shut up."

Mycroft tilts his head at that, wanting some elaboration.

"Clearly, you're not that bothered by Sherlock's passing," John says, finding his way to the kettle in the dim light.

Hand hesitant on the cabinet door, Mycroft decides after a pause that, really, he's earned at least one biscuit, maybe even two, so he opens the door and pries open the tin and he holds it and peers inside and chooses and seriously considers whether he's going to press both his luck and his last remaining bits of sanity.

John raises a brow at Mycroft. "A biscuit tin?"

Mycroft curls the old tin close to his chest and says, "What did you expect, John, a bomb?" 

"You never know, huh?" John offers a weak, apologetic smile.

Mycroft can't help but reward the smile with a careful offering of the contents of his mother's biscuit tin.

"Oh," John says with surprise. "Ta!" He reaches in slowly and pulls out a biscuit, nodding to Mycroft. 

Mycroft closes the tin, placing it back in the cabinet.

"I do care about Sherlock, you know," he says. 

John raises a brow and shoves more biscuit into his mouth so as to delay an answer. As he makes a final swallow, he looks around and observes, "You keep a very orderly kitchen."

Mycroft has never received that compliment in his life and doesn't quite know what to do with it. "Thank you," Mycroft says finally, recognizing once again how easily John can make him feel vulnerable, like a kicked dog being awarded Best in Show.

John shrugs off the thanks. "Well, you remember the one at 221B."

To be fair, most kitchens are better than the one at 221B had been.

***

"Cab fare."

John's not at all drunk. Mycroft stares at John for a long moment, taking in all the data he can. He has no idea why John has shown up sober. John moves into the house. After Mycroft pays the cabbie, he's wary of entering after John. It's like one of those stories you hear about where someone seems too calm and then, all of a sudden, they've shot someone dead in cold blood.

Mycroft makes a quick call to Lestrade to see if he might know anything, but Lestrade's barely seen John since the night he'd come over drunk. Mycroft thanks him, and dares to go inside through the open front door.

***

"I remembered something," John says, sitting on the sofa calmly, perhaps too calmly.

This is it, isn't it? They're going to be scraping his brains from the wall. Or perhaps it will be his heart. That would be a bit poetic. 

The poor rug.

"And what was that?" Mycroft asks.

"I pissed myself," John says slowly. "And you washed my pants." The tone is accusatory and just a bit...mournful.

Mycroft swallows. He's going to be killed for appreciating the idea of John in those pants. He should have known.

"Yes," Mycroft confirms. "Accidents do happen, and you were my guest." He carefully makes his way to the armchair, conscious that John may be armed. 

"You look skittish," John says suddenly, staring with great focus, too much focus, at Mycroft. Sober John has his head about him. Mycroft almost wishes John had been drinking this time. Figures this is how things should end.

"It's nothing," Mycroft says.

John shakes his head. "How exactly does the strings puller of the British Government reconcile the power he holds with cleaning up other people's vomit and piss?"

Mycroft notes that John is eerily serious, any trace of humor or even ulterior motive overtaken by the stagnant gravity of an unnameable something. This must be where Mycroft seals his fate; it _would_ be poetic, and add some symmetry. He  remembers being nine years old and administering syrup of ipecac to Sherlock after he'd poisoned himself, remembers being kicked in the shins for ruining the experiment (and for saving his life). History does hold so many quaint parallels.

It's alright that it's here in his home, in a way. He'll spend his last moments surrounded by the things he loves. Hell, he even loves John. It's too sudden for his mind to let go of that connection now that he's going to be murdered.

Suddenly, John covers his face with his hand, and Mycroft expects to hear one of those famous giggles of his, expects to be mocked again. John might have made an interesting employee.

Oh; it's not a giggle. 

It's a sob.

John bows his head and hunches over, looking small for once, curling into his corner of the sofa as he scrubs at his face with his hands. "Dammit, Mycroft."

"What?" Mycroft says, suddenly startled.

John shakes his head. "You really didn't mean to hurt Sherlock," he says, voice cracking. "You didn't mean it, did you?" And when he looks up, his eyes are red-rimmed, spilling a shock of tears down his face, and Mycroft slowly rises to his feet.

"I'll go, Mycroft," John says pleadingly, holding up his hands in surrender, in defense. "Please. Wait, just. Let me...collect myself," he says, and bows his head again as his shoulders shake from the repression of sobs and loss and life itself.

Mycroft tilts his head. He steps a bit closer, standing in front of John in perfectly shined shoes. "You're free to go, of course, but you're also free to stay."

John sobs louder, and Mycroft reaches into the pocket of his jacket, voice firmer as, in awe, he calls, "I've wiped vomit off your face, and you think I'm going to kick you out for a few tears?" He stares at the strange creature that is John Watson. He takes out a handkerchief and holds it in John's line of sight.

"Shit," John mutters, scrubbing his hands over his face furiously as if tears respond to vigor.

"All things considered, this is the best company you've been so far," Mycroft points out, and he hears John inhale a shuddery breath then sort of sob again, the sound choked off. John takes the piece of fabric in his trembling hands, probably to shut Mycroft up, though Mycroft doesn't care why. Mycroft simply makes his way back to his armchair and reaches for his book, which has been on the end table untouched for the past few days. He starts to read.

To the sound of turning pages, John collects himself until, finally, he's is sitting up, straight-backed, sniffling, crumpling the used fabric in unsteady hands, his face and nose dry. He looks straight ahead as if fighting against an urge to keep crying.

"John?"

John jerks back to reality, looking over at his host cautiously.

"What's troubling you?" asks Mycroft. "I mean, besides Sherlock's death." 

The last thing Mycroft expects is for John to drop the handkerchief and run for the exit like he's Cinderella and midnight has just struck for the first time.

***

"John?" Mycroft follows John out onto the porch in the cool air. John stares straight ahead again.

"Please," Mycroft says with a hint of urgency, "let me arrange a car for you."

"To where, though?" John snaps, and Mycroft stills.

"I don't want to go home," John says. "And I certainly don't need to stay here. I don't want to stay with Lestrade—he offered, you know. And I," he draws in a heavy breath, "I _can't_ stay at 221B. I'm through. I'm done."

Mycroft watches John for a moment, stares at silly, interesting John whose only home seems to be drunkenness at the moment.

"Are you sure?" he finally asks John.

John turns toward him with a grave expression. "Am I sure?" he scoffs. " _Yes._  I don't...belong. I never did. I just want...to stop existing. So, I'd say that's quite sure." He half-heartedly cocks an eyebrow at Mycroft.

Mycroft's lip quirks slightly in response. "What I meant," he says, "is are you sure that you don't need to stay here?"

John takes a step back and leans against the side of the house, staring at Mycroft in bewilderment. "Stop," he says quietly, and Mycroft isn't quite sure what he should be stopping.

"All I'm saying, Dr Watson, is that if no place suits you better than anywhere else at present, you might as well come inside." He pauses for dramatic effect and smiles just for John. "It would save both of us the cab fare." 

***

John shakily sips tea on the sofa and blankly watches a special on finding Atlantis as Mycroft reads his book.

***

"What did I say to upset you?" Mycroft finally asks.

John startles, looking across the room at him. They hold each other's gaze for a long moment. Then, for a moment more.

"You know, you _can_ come sit on your own sofa," John says with a tired, slightly petulant air. "I may be a complete, drunken dick sometimes, but I don't bite."

Mycroft raises an eyebrow and, gathering his book, walks obediently over to sit near John, leaving a reasonable amount of space between them.

"Thanks," John says with a sigh of relief.

They both pay partial attention to the programme. They both relax into the moderate proximity of their new positions. 

Mycroft knows John changed the subject, and he allows it to stay changed for now. If anything, his crush on John has been renewed by the tears, not lessened, and he's more intrigued than ever. It turns out, when sober, John's not bad company, even when it's Mycroft he's around and he fully believes Mycroft sent his own brother to the grave.

No one ever wants anything to do with Mycroft if it's not related to business. He isn't modern or entertaining or imbued with any sort of magnetism. He isn't interesting. He's...respectable, and a genius, and that's about it.

But if John Watson is in his sitting room, he's going to see if he'd like to stay.

***

"Are you sure?"

"Of course. You're welcome here." Myroft pauses. "I mean, I'm not going to...mother you forever, but I know that things are very hard right now. I do tend to mother too much," he admits, feeling suddenly embarrassed that he'd been so helpful. Old habits, and all that.

John frowned. "Well, and you feel guilty, right? About what happened."

Mycroft raises a brow.

"Don't you?"

Mycroft offers, "I think what you're asking is if you guilted me into letting you stay. My personal guilt has nothing to do with your being welcome here; this not penance. I'm helping because I'm concerned for you." 

John's eyes suddenly can't meet Mycroft's.

"Rest well, John."

John hesitates. Mycroft guesses he's searching for something to say that might put things right. He's relieved when John gives up and accepts the offered pyjamas instead.

***

"You didn't have to," John blurts out, standing in the doorway to the kitchen in only his undershirt and a pair of violet pants.

"But I did," Mycroft points out after a brief glance at the pants' unexpected hue. "If I were you, I'd be hungry," he says with a casual shrug. It's Saturday. Mycroft himself is still in his pyjamas.

John glances down at his pants. "Oh. Let me go put something on," he says, embarrassed, looking around the orderly kitchen.

"I don't know," Mycroft teases gently, "violet suits you."

John hurries back toward the bedroom, but, no, the color really had looked nice on John. And so had John's backside.

"I'd only wanted tea," John says, dressed and breathless. "Sorry."

Mycroft offers breakfast to John again, and John actually accepts.

***

John seems to like the space of Mycroft's house. They move his things into one of the spare rooms after a while. Keeping an eye on John is easier than it's ever been, and more fun too.

John starts to drink a lot less, but he's definitely antsy. He loudly watches bloody horror films in the sitting room. He goes to work, he comes home, he makes pancakes while dressed only in his pants and undershirt.

"You never dressed down this much at Sherlock's," Mycroft points out, trying not to admire the view of a stripes-clad arse as he watches John flip pancakes.

John's stance indicates he's really taking the question into consideration. Finally, he says, "I've always felt at home in a kitchen, just...not the one at 221B."

"Hm," Mycroft chuckles. "Well, I suppose I can't blame you."

"Now, if you want me to put some trousers on," John says seriously, turning to look at Mycroft, "I absolutely will. Regressing back to university days, I suppose," John jokes, glancing down at his attire. "I...am getting old," he admits. "It looked nicer then."

Mycroft bites his tongue, not trusting himself to weigh in on the matter of either John's age or his appearance. He takes a seat at the table and busies himself with the paper.

"I can always find everything I need here," John praises Mycroft's kitchen again.

Mycroft glances up at John's back, wondering if he qualifies as something that John needs.

***

"Come on."

"What?" Mycroft stares at John.

"Come on. Let's take a walk."

Mycroft looks mildly horrified. "It's _pouring_ ," he emphasizes. They can hear the heaviness of the rain from inside.

"I know," John says. "Put on something less," he waves a hand at Mycroft vaguely, "dry clean only, and we'll grab a couple umbrellas."

" _Why?_ " Mycroft asks.

"Because...because the world is _alive_ out there, Mycroft, a nd I want to go feel its pulse," John says, oddly serious behind laughing eyes.

Mycroft allows John to help him up, all the while making it clear through his expression that he thinks John's slightly lost it, but he does go and get changed.

"Fantastic," John praises, and Mycroft glances down at himself.

A jumper he never wears and a casual pair of slacks, as casual as he owns. "Not really," Mycroft replies. They don their coats and grab identical black umbrellas.

"Why are we doing this again?" Mycroft asks.

John reaches out past the protective circle of his umbrella, smiling to himself. "It's like...an adventure," he says above the sound of the rain on the tops of their umbrellas.

"What is?" Mycroft cautiously asks, starting to walk alongside John.

"The rain, the, um," John frowns, contemplative, "the way it, you know, wipes things clean? We could do...anything. We could change the whole course of our lives in a moment, and the energy of the world, of all those possibilities...well, it feels like that outside right now, don't you think?"

Mycroft watches as John walks a bit ahead, then comes back, gazing hopefully at Mycroft. "Don't tell me you've never felt like that," he says.

To be honest, Mycroft is taking in John's behavior and trying to decide whether or not he's alright. Most likely, the behavior is evidence of John's healing process.

"You've honestly never just thought about how you could just, I don't know, jump out a window, or yell at the boss, or spray paint rude words on the side of a church?"

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "No," he says.

"Well," says John, puffing out his chest a bit, "I have. Especially on nights like this, at times like this. I feel like...I'm at a turning point." He steps toward Mycroft a bit more. "You know? Like everything's starting to make sense, like I'm going to...make it all work somehow...but I'm still sort of lost in the energy. Um, have you ever...jumped rope?"

" _What?_ " Mycroft says, blinking.

John turns away slightly, reaching out to catch drops of rain in his palm, watching the drops glint in the low lights.

"Well, when you jump rope, you know you've got to jump in, that you're either going to make the right steps and keep at it or you're just going to get all caught up in the rope. But at first, you're stuck staring at the movement, at all the possibilities, until, finally, you take the chance."

Mycroft raises a brow. "I do suppose you've got a point there."

John looks at Mycroft, gauging his sincerity. He pulls his hand back under the umbrella, smiling a bit, tightening his grip on the handle for a moment. "Here," he says, folding the umbrella closed, offering it to Mycroft.

Mycroft watches John curiously, accepting the umbrella. John turns away from Mycroft and begins to run. Mycroft tucks the umbrella beneath his arm. As he watches John's clothes become soaked and darken, as he watches the rain wipe the man clean, he wonders what John Watson is becoming. This is a turning point, after all; John's right.

He warns John not to sit down as they step back inside. John is soaking wet and grinning like he's snapped, but Mycroft knows he hasn't. Not for the worse, anyway.

***

John starts peeling off his shoes and socks, laughing. "That was brilliant. Thanks," he says to Mycroft. Stripped down to his undershirt and pants, his bright red pants look dark and mysterious as they cling. Mycroft catches himself holding two closed umbrellas and openly staring.

"Would you mind?" John asks, holding the laundry out in offering. His eyes are bright despite the fact that he's begun to shiver.

"You look pleased with yourself," Mycroft observes, hanging up the umbrellas, reaching out to take the pile.

"Mycroft, I'm going to ask you something," John says uncertainly, squinting slightly.

"Yes?" Mycroft asks, taking a deep breath in through his nose. He pulls the cool, wet clothes close to himself, soaking his jumper.

John's expression is hard to read. "Do you happen to have a bit of a crush on me?" 

Mycroft considers taking a step back. He considers explaining _why_  he has a crush on John, that it's not really John's fault, that he's not going to do anything to make John uncomfortable. He considers telling John that it doesn't matter whether or not he does. After all, Sherlock is going to return. 

Suddenly, the rain on the house seems louder than the rain had been on their umbrellas. Suddenly, the dripping of John's hair and clothing seems like the only movement allowed. Mycroft quickly tries to fix things. "John," he says carefully.

He's not sure what to say. He feels the clothing drip onto his shoes.

"I think you do," John says finally. "You put up with a lot from me that I don't know who else would have, save maybe my sister." He runs a hand through his wet hair. "You're...careful...with me. And most of all, patient. And, Mycroft, I, um. I try to hide my flaws," he swallows. "Even with Sherlock, I was afraid to show him my 'dark side', you know. And then, I show up here and let it all out, and you...you gave me a bed to sleep in." He blinks as if he still can't quite believe it.

Mycroft nods carefully.

"Why you did it, why you've been so good to me," John says, "it would make sense, wouldn't it?" Of course it would, but that isn't what John really wants to know.

"This doesn't have to be about that," Mycroft assures John. "We were friends once, if you'll recall, and I don't mind...the arrangement we have." Secretly, selfishly, he likes having activity in the house. He likes rain-soaked entryways and domestic compromises and for someone to try his cooking here and there.

"That's not what I asked," says John softly.

Mycroft lifts the sodden clothes as a reminder, and goes to take care of the laundry.

***

"You'll want the rest?" John has followed him.

"Rest?" asks Mycroft with a frown.

John rolls his eyes. He reaches down and starts peeling the undershirt off of himself. Mycroft's eyes widen as John reveals his stomach, his chest, the light hair there, the way even bits of his skin look damp.

The undershirt is added to the pile of wet clothing, and Mycroft swallows as John crouches slightly, peeling the deep red pants off as well, stepping out of them. He dangles them from his fingertips teasingly, finding the edge of the lid to the washing machine and lifting it, dropping the pants in. "Ta," he says cheekily, and makes his way to the shower. 

Mycroft keeps his eyes in appropriate places and only relaxes when he hears the sound of the water running.

He tries to remind himself that men have a proven psychological reaction of increased lust when presented with the color red, and that it's okay if he's found he has a favorite pair of _another man's pants_.

***

"I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable, Mycroft," John says with a wince. He's still wet from the shower, wearing his bathrobe, standing in the sitting room. "When I stripped down, I mean. Thought it was a better idea at the time than I thought it was once I'd gone upstairs. I wasn't trying to be insensitive." 

Mycroft tilts his head slightly; John Watson really is a curious thing. "Thank you, John, I appreciate that. I _do_ happen to have...feelings for you," he says wryly.

John's lip curls up slightly. "I'd thought so," he says, then licks his lips in nervousness. "My gran...had this recipe," he says bravely, "for my favorite biscuits. Maybe we could try it out sometime? You seem to have a handle on...baking."

It feels like it's a bigger deal to John than it sounds like it is to Mycroft, so Mycroft quickly agrees. "Yes, I'd like that."

John takes a seat on the sofa, looking relieved. "Good," John says. He bites his lip for a moment.  


"Is there something else, John?" Mycroft lets the book he'd like to get back to rest in his lap. He offers his full attention to his friend.

"Just that," John swallows, "I had you pegged all wrong. I'd really hoped for a while there that you could be something I could blame and work against, since there's nothing to be done about Sherlock except blame something." He draws in a deep breath, then lets it out slowly.

"Thank you, John," Mycroft says again carefully. This makes up for the pain of John’s drunken behavior. He cautiously smiles to himself. Indeed, he’s won John over again. 

"And I think maybe," John says, "I think I....have feelings for you too. Well, for a long while, actually. And, er, I'm actually kind of a jerk. No," he says more emphatically, "no, I _really_ am one." He ducks his head slightly. "I tend to take people for granted, and...I'm sorry."

Mycroft smiles at John with fondness. "Apology accepted," he says. "I'd already forgiven you, you know. I raised Sherlock, remember?"

John laughs softly. "Yes, I suppose you did. You should...tell me about that sometime." 

"Be careful what you wish for," Mycroft teases.

"Well, I will if you will," John jokes. 

Mycroft frowns slightly at that, trying to understand.

"Me," John explains, gesturing to himself, looking concerned. "You think you want me, but I'm not a very good boyfriend."

"I've spoken with Sarah before," Mycroft says in amusement. "I've gathered as much." Just as John seems to be slowly taking offense, he adds, "I rather like your red pants."

John, distracted, grins. "Ah, yeah. I do too," he says. "I guess colored pants make me feel less...boring."

Mycroft's eyes widen slightly as he looks over at John. "You shoot cabbies and run in the rain. Who on earth told you you were boring?" He's fairly certain this makes John blush. "Do you have more feelings for me than you had for my brother?" Mycroft asks. "And, yes, it's relevant. To me, anyway."

"Relevant or not, how does one even answer that?" John grumbles. "Er...I suppose so, yeah. I did care a lot about him, even romantically sometimes. But...and please don't take this in a negative way," he says with a quick, sorry glance over, "I think you can take all of the shit I could possibly throw at you. I...I admire you, in...softer ways than I admired Sherlock."

Mycroft begins planning possible dating scenarios in his head. Quickly, he says to John, "I think you can handle all the shit I could throw at you too," with a reassuring smile. 

He's never been so glad to have paid someone else's cab fare.  


End file.
